Oases  in  Gotham 


BY  PHILIP   VERRILL  MIGHELS 


HER  parks  are  the  pleasant  oases 
that  redeem  New  York,  the  great 
American  desert!  With  its  ugly 
cliff  -  dwellings,  rock  -  paved  trails,  and 
canons  of  iron  and  adamant,  barren,  un- 
lovely, shimmering  dizzily  with  summer 
heat  and  back-flung  glare  of  the  naked 
sun,  and  all  of  it  rendered  daily  more 
desolate  by  added  population,  the  on- 
creep  of  asphalt,  more  brick  caverns  and 
concrete  sidewalks,  gray  and  harsh  as 
lava,  New  York  is  a  region  of  mu- 
nicipal aridness,  alleviated,  like  the 
stark  Sahara,  only  where  the  soul  of 
creation  breaks  through. 

Man  has  ceased  to  marvel  that  the 
Afric  sands  yield  wells  and  greenery  in 
all  their  bare  austerity,  and  now  he  com- 
mences to  marvel  more  that  the  city 
should  achieve  a  like  relief.  Moreover, 
for  every  lone  caravan  of  men  and  brutes 
that  cruises  Sahara,  glad  to  crawl  to  the 
coolness  and  fragrance  of  the  emerald 
havens,  there  are  all  the  innumerable 
caravans  of  an  empire  to  hasten,  famish- 
ing for  nature's  benediction,  to  the  parks 
and  oases  of  Manhattan. 

And  these  are  caravans  of  the  sorely 
tried,  the  city-bound  who  may  not  escape 
the  burning  precincts  of  the  city  desola- 
tion, the  homeless,  the  comfortless,  and 
the  children  who  are  otherwise  denied  a 
contact  with  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
To  what  extent  the  city  parks  are  oases 
to  these  many  wayfarers  may  be  appre- 
ciated only  by  those  who  have  felt  and 
understood  the  mighty  thirst  and  in- 
stinct for  physical  intimacy  with  the  sod 
that  is  in  us  all,  or  have  sometimes  seen 
the  tens  of  thousands  of  otherwise  hope- 
less human  beings  strewn  upon  the  grass 
and  earth  mercifully  left  unoccupied  by 
the  appalling  growth  of  America's  lar- 
gest metropolis. 

By  great  good  fortune  they  are  fairly 
numerous  and  tolerably  hospitable,  these 
products  of  man's  noble  alliance  with 
creation,  despite  the  reversal  of  processes 


whereby  man  with  his  town  has  desertized 
an  island  once  all  oasis,  leaving  here  and 
there  a  speck  or  lake  of  greenery  un- 
blanketed  by  paving-stones  and  houses. 

New  York  begins  with  a  park  and 
ends  with  its  teeth  in  nature's  open 
country.  Walled  in  by  the  most  tower- 
ing buildings  in  the  world,  the  old- 
time  Battery  affords  first  relief  in  the 
man-made  desert,  at  the  city's  seaward 
end,  or  southern  extremity,  while  far  to 
the  north  Van  Cortland  Bark  and  the 
Bronx  behold  the  steady  advance  of  wall 
and  macadam  that  tread  down  the  trees 
and  grass  and  hillocks  of  natural  rock 
between  themselves  and  the  scattered 
green  acres  of  the  town. 

Manhattan  Island  is  restricted  as  to 
space,  and  may  not,  like  London,  for 
instance,  afford  vast  spaces  such  as  Hyde 
and  Regent  parks,  Kensington  Gardens, 
and  prodigious  heaths  and  commons. 
Nevertheless  it  is  doubtful  if  any  large 
city  of  the  world  has  been  more  pic- 
turesquely or  nobly  abetted  in  the  crea- 
tion of  her  parks  than  Manhattan  by 
the  splendid  handicraft  of  nature. 

The  entire  surface  of  the  island  was 
formerly  a  broken  succession  of  hills, 
slopes,  meadowed  hollows,  and  massive 
ledges  of  rock.  With  all  manner  of  trees 
and  its  buttresses  of  granite,  it  was  all 
originally  a  park  of  alternating  glade 
and  rugged  eminence.  To-day,  in  a  num- 
ber of  the  parks,  both  dell  and  cliff, 
with  all  their  stately  brotherhood  of  trees, 
remain  almost  as  the  world  -  heaving 
forces  of  ci'eation  left  them,  with  here 
and  there  a  hollow  filled  to  make  a  lake, 
and  here  and  there  a  stream  of  water  re- 
supplied  to  a  channel,  by  way  of  addi- 
tional charm. 

To  the  lover  of  beauty  the  least  ap- 
pealing of  the  parks  of  New  York  are 
those  reduced  by  necessity  to  mere  con- 
ventional form — the  open  spaces,  like 
Battery  Bark,  and  Union,  Madison,  and  * 
Washington    squares,    such    as  cities 


F 

778       •  1 

throughout  the  world  invariably  support. 
The  four  ineomparaliles  are  Central 
Park,  Morningsido,  Riverside,  and  the 
Bronx.  Nevertheless  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  for  sheer  comfort  to  the 
weary  and  relief  to  homeless  pilgrims 
of  the  desert  the  open  squares,  with  their 
fountains,  shade,  and  benches,  though 
ceaselessly  assaulted  by  the  roar,  grind, 
and  rumble  of  the  vast  metropolitan 
machine,  are  far  in  the  lead  of  their 
calmer,  more  splendid  prototypes  beyond. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  these 
lesser  oases  are  unattractive.  Battery 
Park  is  a  level  field  of  grass  and  flourish- 
ing trees  that,  bathed  in  the  sunlight  of 
a  spring  or  autumn  day,  calls  thousands 
to  its  benches.  Its  sea-wall  fronts  the 
harbor,  where  the  white-winged  gull,  the 
surging  tug.  and  the  greyhound  of  the 
wide  Atlantic  pass  ceaselessly  in  the  traf- 
fic and  pageant ry  of  life.  When  the 
bay  is  a  sparkling  mirror  of  gold  and 
the  leaves  contentedly  murmur  in  a  lan- 
guid breeze  from  Cuba,  there  are  thou- 
sands of  foot-sore,  heart-sore  wanderers 
who  find  the  old  Battery  as  welcome  as  a 
bit  of  heaven  immeasurably  detached 
from  its  source. 

Considerably  farther  up  the  island, 
where  noisy  trade,  close  crowding  of  in- 
habitants, and  haunting  smells  of  man 
and  his  devices  devastate  vast  areas,  I 
found  a  representative  oasis  of  this 
humbler  type,  worn  nude  by  the  frantic 
enjoyment  of  its  charms  indulged  in  by 
its  daily  visitors.  It  is  little  Hudson 
Park,  by  its  size  and  functions  a  ju- 
venile well  in  the  desert.  It  is  just  a 
mere  postage-stamp  of  greenery,  embossed 
on  a  corner  of  the  town.  It  is  charming 
nevertheless,  and  unexpected,  with  its 
granite  pagoda  fountain,  its  large  limpid 
pool  in  a  sunken  garden,  its  trees  and 
playground,  and  all  too  prodigal  meed 
of  hospitality.  For  the  greater  part  its 
wayfaring  desert  travellers  are  youngsters. 
It  is  they  who  have  flung  themselves, 
as  it  were,  on  its  lap  till  its  grasses  have 
all  been  worn  away.  It  is  they  who 
breathe  a  fresher  elixir  from  the  cool- 
ness and  plash  of  its  waters.  And  their 
cries  of  delight  arise  on  the  clangor  of 
iron-laden  wagons,  hoof-beat  of  horses, 
and  train  roar  thundering  by  incessantly 
on  the  elevated  structure,  as  they  romp 
in  the  swings,  soar  skyward  on  the  see- 


IIARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


saws,  and  shoot  down  the  polished  flumes 
that  an  Indulgent  city  parent  has  pro- 
vided. Fancy  a  desert  oasis  with  a 
slippery  chute,  made  and  installed  for 
children  to  use  in  wearing  out  their 
nether  garments!  What  wonder  the 
grasses  have  succumbed!  Yet  why  an 
oasis  that  does  not  serve  its  uses?  And 
this  one,  I  repeat,  is  for  tiny  waifs, 
otherwise  famished  in  the  desert. 

Judged  by  the  standard  of  every-day 
utility  and  comfort,  the  mere  conven- 
tional oases  are  the  most  indispensable 
of  all.  Judged  as  one  is  wont  to  judge 
his  mother,  they  are  probably  the  loveliest 
89  well.  They  fulfil,  as  it  were,  a  mater- 
nal function,  impossible  to  parks  more 
distant  from  the  scenes  of  city  strife  and 
desert  weariness.  Washington  Square  is 
barely  removed  from,  and  Union  and 
Madison  squares  are  fairly  upon,  the 
great  main  highway  through  the  desert — 
Broadway — the  trail  of  ceaseless  cara- 
vans, burdened  with  riches  and  poverty, 
prodieral  joys  and  fathomless  woes,  trag- 
edy, hope,  and  despair. 

Hundreds  of  thousands  of  exhausted 
travellers  occupy  these  resting  -  spots 
throughout  the  year,  from  babies  half 
stifled  by  the  desert  heats  and  aridness, 
to  feeble  old  men,  fast  nearing  the  end 
of  their  journey.  Save  for  the  trees  and 
grass,  however,  there  is  nothing  natural 
in  any  of  these  three,  jiothing  to  single 
them  out  for  particular  beauty  or  the 
characteristics  of  Manhattan's  nobler 
oases.  There  is  nothing  in  any  one,  for 
instance,  comparable  to  the  slender,  pre- 
cipitous beauty  of  Riverside  Park,  on 
the  Hudson's  edge,  beginning  at  the  seat 
of  commercial  war,  by  coal  and  railway 
yards  or  dingy  wharves,  half-way  up  the 
city's  length,  and  practically  terminating 
at  the  tomb  of  Grant,  with  its  legend, 
"  Let  us  have  Peace." 

For  sheer  cultured  loveliness,  situa- 
tion, and  variety  of  contour,  texture 
and  foliage,  this  exquisite  strip  has 
no  rival  in  the  land.  Not  only  is 
all  the  natural  growth  augmented  by 
quadrupled  rows  of  elms  in  the  famous 
drive  along  its  crest,  and  not  only  are 
its  walls,  its  granite  stairways,  and  its 
natural  rock  masses  all  masterpieces  of 
harmony  and  appropriateness,  but  the 
mile-wide  Hudson  laves  its  sloping  edge, 
and  across  the  tides  the  Jersey  heights 


OASES  IN  GOTHAM. 


779 


and  Palisades  are 
reared  in  ever- 
changing  aspects  of 
magnificence. 

From  a  thousand 
view-points  along  its 
rim  this  park  pre- 
sents enchanting  vis- 
tas. Tall  poplars, 
gnarled  old  oaks, 
beeches,  birches,  and 
willows  supply  the 
charm  inseparable 
fro  m  varied  leaf- 
ages. Glimpses  of 
sunlit  river,  over  the 
trees  and  through  the 
trees,  succeed  one  an- 
other for  two  or 
three  miles  of  its 
length.  Great,  wide- 
spreading  lawns  are 
laid  obliquely  from 
its  top  retaining-wall 
along  its  undulating 
acclivities,  none  of 
them  level,  and  all  of 
them  rendered  more 
inviting  by  their 
slanting  inequalities 
and  intimate  associa- 
tion with  colossal 
mounds  of  rock.  The 
city's  finest  viaducts 
are  built  above  and 
somewhat  incorpo- 
rated with  the  walls, 
hills,  and  chasms  of 
Riverside,  particular- 
ly on  the  newly  com- 
pleted extension 

above  Grant's  tomb,  where  granite  in 
arched  magnificence  has  been  employed. 

It  is  more  these  hillside  features  than 
anything  else  that  render  New  York's 
oases  distinct  from  those  of  other  great 
commercial  centres.  Thus  Morningside 
Park,  like  a  flawless  gem  spilled  out  of 
great  Central  Park  itself,  and  impaled 
upon  a  rugged  upheaval  of  adamant, 
hangs  half  on  hillside  and  half  in  a  val- 
ley at  least  one  hundred  feet  below. 

In  something  less  than  a  mile  of 
length  it  exemplifies  a  series  of  natural 
and  artificial  beauties  unequalled  else- 
where on  the  continent.  It  has  ledges 
of  rock  as  huge  as  a  castle  that  nature 

Vol.  CXX.-No.  719.-97 


The  cool  Seclusions  of  Central  Park 


alone  has  been  bold  enough  to  sculpture. 
It  has  basins  of  lawn  and  acres  of  trees 
to  hold  or  to  filter  the  sunlight.  Its 
upper  edge  is  topped  by  a  drive  hugely 
buttressed  by  a  wall  of  granite,  railed 
with  bronze,  surpassing  for  splendid 
solidity  and  architectural  perfection  any 
masonry  in  all  the  town. 

The  walk  and  drive  above  this  bril- 
liant little  jewel  of  a  park  overlook  all 
its  slopes  and  abrupt  descent  of  rocks, 
lingo  parapets,  impressive  in  their  bulk 
and  symmetry,  rise  level  with  the  drive, 
their  bases  set  on  ledges  far  below,  their 
grim,  dark  masses  overcrept  with  ivies 
that  ripple  in  the  breeze. 


Such  stairways  as  imagination  builds  to 
ascend  to  palaces  of  kings,  like  ancient 
Solomon's,  rise  to  terrace  on  terrace, 
and  warm  up  goldenly  in  the  morning's 
sun  as  the  first  rays  fall  upon  the  park. 
They,  too,  are  granite,  railed  with  bronze, 
their  posts,  steps,  and  structure  excep- 
tionally massive,  and  overtwined  with 
clinging  vines  that,  when  the  autumn 
burnishes  their  garnet  and  their  gold, 
flame  upward  on  the  clean  gray  bulk  with 
a  splendor  only  possible  to  nature. 


More  than  any  of  the  city's  parks  this 
same  little  Morningside  flourishes  in 
poplars.  Their  tall  minuet  in  the  sum- 
mer breeze  is  graceful  beyond  expression. 
They  render  the  scene  peculiarly  Italian, 
rising  on  successive  terraces  and  domi- 
nating all  the  other  trees.  Indeed,  there 
is  nothing  in  Gotham  quite  so  Italian 
as  this  perfected  bit  of  landscape. 
Shrubbery,  trees  that  bloom  and  fling  out 
redolence  from  petalled  chalices,  and 
groves  that  sift  a  dappled  gold  upon  the 


Morningside  Park,  hanging  half  on  a  Hillside,  is  a  perfected  Bit  of  Landscape 


slopes  and  cool  expanses  of  grass,  com- 
plete the  enchantment  that  the  small 
oasis  exerts  on  the  hundreds  of  children 
and  adults  who,  during  the  summer, 
practically  live  within  its  borders. 

It  has  nooks  of  shade  for  the  hotter 
seasons  of  the  year,  and  niches  of  sun- 
shine and  protection  from  the  winds  of 
spring  and  failing  autumn.  Certain  old 
cronies,  veterans  of  our  Civil  War,  and 
veterans  also  of  the  battle  to  survive, 
I  have  frequently  found  pre-empting 
favorite  haunts  of  sun  or  shade  in  this 
poetically  christened  bit  of  Creation's 
art,  content  to  pass  their  declining  days 


in  the  narrow  confines  of  the  little  oasis, 
beyond  which  stretches  the  desert.  But 
here  as  elsewhere  the  babies  comprise 
the  endless  caravans,  halting  on  the 
march  of  life  for  the  needful  intimacy 
with  earth  and  grass  and  trees  that  such 
a  spot  makes  possible. 

Central  Park,  unlike  the  others,  sup- 
plies an  oasis  for  rich  and  poor  alike. 
The  wealthy,  famishing  in  Saharas  of 
gold  for  opportunities  for  basking  in  the 
curiosity  of  their  neighbors  and  less 
wealthy  kind,  flee  to  this  vast  green  place 
of  nature's  kindliness  by  thousands,  to 
drive,  ride,  and  motor  through  its  avenues 


7W 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


of  Bbade  and  parade,  no  matter  what  the 
season.  The  poor  seek  it  no  less  eagerly 
for  its  benches,  its  lakes,  and  its  cahn, 
wide  holms  of  grass. 

Every  feature  embodied  in  the  smaller 
parks. is  exemplified  here  in  a  magnified 
or  modified  degree,  with  many  other  at- 


The  Loveliness  of  Bronx  Park  is  that  of  lncitied  Nature 


tractions  exclusive  to  itself.  In  its 
ridges,  masses,  and  ledges  of  rock,  and 
its  unmolested  groves  and  tangles  of 
trees  and  vines,  it  is  incredibly  "  wild  " 
and  natural.  Four  dainty  lakes  and  sev- 
eral bickering  streams,  the  former  filling 
dimples  in  the  folded  hills  of  rock,  the 
latter  following  small  ravines  and  rill- 
ways,  encourage  many  animals  also  to 
seek  a  refuge  from  a  harsher  world  and 
bide  a  while  at  peace. 

Contented  ducks  from  polar  inclemen- 
cies make  yearly  homes  among  the  water- 
fowl domesticated  in  the  park,  while 
thousands   of  unalarmed   squirrels  live, 


breed,  and  flourish  in  its  trees,  feeding 
mi  the  bounty  of  admiring  friends. 
These  frisky  and  confident  little  rogues 
are  rapidly  becoming  famous  for  their 
friendliness  with  man.  How  much  they 
contribute  to  i  lie  enjoyment  of  I  he  chil- 
dren can  never  be  estimated,  except  per- 
haps hy  a  wise  Record- 
ing Angel  of  things 
divine  and  eternal. 

Aside  from  the 
splendid  driveways,  the 
saddle-path  for  equine 
travellers,  the  boat-, 
lovers'  pathways,  and 
basins  for  children  to 
use  in  sailing  boats 
and  dabbling,  there  are 
many  portions  of  the 
park  devoted  to  other 
oasean  comforts.  Per- 
haps the  most  charm- 
ing example  of  its 
hospitality  is  that  ac- 
corded to  hundreds  of 
tiny  May-queens,  in 
the  spring  and  early 
s\immer.  I  have  seen 
no  less  than  fifty  at  a 
time  of  these  dainty 
little  monarchs,  each 
with  her  court  about 
her  on  the  grass  and 
in  the  shade,  where  the 
park's  great  bosom  is 
levelled  in  maternal 
amplitude.  All  through 
the  month  of  May  and 
into  June  they  reign. 
If  the  first  of  May  is 
cold  or  peevish,  what 
matter?  There  are 
four  or  five  Saturdays  remaining,  some 
of  which  are  certain  to  be  bright. 

On  these  occasions  the  grass  is  the 
children's  for  tournament  and  romp; 
and  if  with  gauze  and  cheese-cloth  in- 
stead of  silk  and  cloth-of-gold  they 
pitch  their  pavilions  on  the  field,  they 
are  none  the  less  royal,  none  the  less 
happy  for  the  day  of  their  mimic  splendor 
and  the  sceptre  of  love  they  wield.  I 
have  seen  the  little  May-queens  often 
regalized  with  pink  mosquito-net,  in  lieu 
of  costly  lace  and  satins.  They  march 
to  the  park  not  infrequently  from  many 
blocks  away,  for  few  of  the  poor  abide 


Drawn  by  G.  ti.  Shorty 

FROM   A   THOUSAND    VIEW-POINTS    RIVERSIDE    PARK    PRESENTS    ENCHANTING  VISTAS 


Drawn  by  0.  H.  Shorey 

HUDSON  SQUARE 


OASES  IN  GOTHAM. 


785 


very  close  to  these  favored  vales  of 
Elysium. 

From  squalid  tenements  and  bawling 
streets,  insufferably  noisy,  fetid,  and 
arid,  they  issue,  togged  out  in  holiday 
attire  and  urged  to  the  rhythm  of  a 
martial  step  by  valiantly  beaten  drums. 
There  in  the  cool 
and  fragrance  of 
the  shaded  or  sun- 
gilded  oasis  they 
remain  all  day  to 
play ;  and  then, 
at  dusk,  to  the 
beat  of  the  some- 
what wearied  in- 
strument, and  in 
laggard,  broken 
order,  go  back 
once  again  to  the 
desert,  to  resume 
the  long  pilgrim- 
age of  life. 

East  River 
Park,  at  the  brink 
of  the  ceaseless 
water  traffic  that 
plies  Long  Island 
Sound,  is  another 
of  the  small  oases 
that  municipal 
paternity  has 
halted  to  supply. 
Like  Hudson 
Park  and  the  Bat- 
tery, it  is  almost 
exclusively  em- 
ployed by  t  h  e 
humbler  beings  of 
the  city.  From 
its  cool  seclusion 
by  the  water's 
edge  are  visible 
the  huge  steel 
spans  that  link 
Long  Island  and 
Manhattan.    It  is 

merely  the  regular,  conventional  oasis, 
spared  from  a  greedy  city's  needs. 

Equally  detached,  but  far  more  pic- 
turesque and  startling  as  a  bit  of  nature, 
set  in  the  midst  of  the  town,  is  little 
Mount  Morris  Park,  up  at  the  eastern 
edge  of  Harlem.  As  the  earth  once 
Hung  off  a  satellite,  so  Central  Park,  or 
Morningside,  might  almost  have  flung 
off  this  rock-saddled  island  of  greenery, 


to  land  it  in  the  midst  of  busy  streets. 
It  is  clearly  the  offspring  of  one  or  the 
other  in  its  natural  characteristics,  but 
the  "  Mount "  from  which  it  derives  its 
name  is  more  astonishing  than  anything 
like  it  in  either  of  the  other  parks  by 
reason  of  the  abruptness  with  which  it 


Scaling  the  Cliff  in  Mount  Morris  Park 


rises  from  the  valley  of  streets  in  all 
that  neighborhood.  Such  a  cliff  of  rock 
as  it  presents  in  the  miles  of  human 
habitations  seems  almost  incredible,  even 
here  in  Gotham,  that  was  once  all  oasia 
and  hills. 

In  sharp  contrast  with  the  small,  con- 
ventional parks  of  the  city  are  the  two 
great  domains  of  grass  and  calm  com- 
prised in  the  Bronx  and  Van  Cortland 


78G 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


parks,  at  the  city's  northern  limits.  The 
Bronx  is  sufficiently  large  to  accommo- 
date a  river — or  a  stream  that  is  so 
described.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  a 
British  admiral,  during  the  war  of  the 
Revolution,  commanded  his  captains  to 
sail  up  the  Bronx  and  destroy  the  camp 
of  Washington,  adjacent  to  its  hanks. 
The  captains  made  the  effort,  discovered 
the  Bronx  to  be  a  pocket-sized  hrook,  and 
reported  that  they  would  (|tiite  as  readily 
undertake!  to  sail  up  the  spout  of  a  kettle. 
It  is  large  enough,  however,  for  the  uses 
of  lovers  and  for  heauty  and  charm,  in 
their  annual  autumn  armada,  to  navi- 
gate with  exquisite  argosies,  scattering 
gold  and  crimson  as  they  go. 

The  loveliness  here,  as  in  portions  of 
Van  Cortland  Park,  is  that  of  un- 
citied  nature.  These  are  such  oases  as 
Manhattan  was,  before  man  came  with 
streets  and  houses.  Bird-song  has  lin- 
gered and  wild  flowers  have  nested  here 
always,  in  confidence  that  man  and  his 
desert  were  halted  far  beyond.  They  are 
pimply  open  world  of  joyous  creation, 
merged  on  their  farther  borders  with 
the  vast,  unexampled  oasis,  stretching 


with  a  heauty  and  hospitality  that  have 
been  the  refuge  and  marvel  of  the  world 
— the  acres  and  States  of  the  continent, 
three  thousand  miles  in  width. 

Like  Regent's  Park  in  London,  the 
Bronx  oasis  has  extended  its  welcome 
to  the  somewhat  reluctant  animals  of 
the  globe.  Its  zoological  gardens  are 
destined  to  surpass  in  completeness  and 
heauty  every  institution  of  their  type 
in  the  world.  Van  Cortland,  like  some 
of  London's  heaths  and  commons,  pro- 
vides vast  opens  for  golf  and  other  out- 
door diversions.  It  and  the  Bronx  are 
playgrounds  for  grown-up  children. 

A  frozen  oasis  may  perhaps  be  an 
anomaly,  yet  I  have  seen  the  parks  of 
.Manhattan  no  less  inspiring  and  spirit- 
gratifving  in  the  winter,  under  hlankets 
of  snow,  than  in  their  most  delectable 
raiment.  And  he  whose  joy  it  is  to  be- 
hold a  thousand  youngsters  sledding 
down  the  icy  inclines  of  Morningside 
and  Riverside  parks  will  hesitate,  as  I 
do  now,  to  pronounce  which  season  of 
the  year  is  least  charming  for  the  little 
desert  wayfarers  most  in  need  of  these 
camps  of  nature. 


Daisy  Time 

BY  SARA  TEASDALE 

T  PLUCKED  a  daisy  in  the  fields, 
1    And  there  beneath  the  sun 
I  let  its  silver  petals  fall 
One  after  one. 

I  said.  "  He  loves  me,  loves  me  not," 
And  oh,  my  heart  beat  fast, 

The  flower  was  kind,  it  let  me  say 
"  He  loves  me,"  last. 

I  kissed  the  little  leafless  stem, 
But  oh,  my  poor  heart  knew 

The  words  the  flower  had  said  to  me, 
Thev  were  not  true. 


AVER" 
DURST 


